Detroit’s Chinatown was filled with old single men.

Most of them worked in food service as waiters and cooks—grueling jobs but the best they could get with their limited English skills. After long days they would arrive at my family’s restaurant, Chung’s Cantonese Cuisine, and practically sprint down a rickety back flight of stairs to the gambling den below. From the top of the landing, I could hear them swearing in Cantonese while casting their well-worn dominoes and chipped mahjong tiles. Occasionally, the gamblers would come up for a pair of our made-from-scratch cabbage egg rolls. If they were winning big, they’d splurge on a jumbo shrimp cocktail.

The disproportionately large number of men seemed odd to me until my parents explained how America’s immigration policies had long prevented Chinese women from entering the country. Why? Presumably out of the unfounded fear that their America would be replaced by hordes of yellow people. Though the U.S. tried to correct this imbalance starting in the 1940s, the gender disparity persisted in cities like Detroit well into the ’80s. Seeking kinship, these dozens of men from southern China formed their own chosen family, a bachelor society centered on the tong, an organization that oversaw the safety and welfare of the local Chinese community—but was sometimes associated with organized crime. Despite the negative stereotypes, these guys seemed more like harmless, cranky uncles to me.

Meanwhile, surrounding Chinatown was Detroit’s gay community, filled with young single white men.

These men weren’t facing any laws preventing them from being with women. They just preferred the company of other men, ones with nicely trimmed haircuts, six-pack abs, and Burt Reynolds mustaches. Plus, they ran businesses I’d never seen in Chinatown, like a pet store, a dog-grooming service, and an antique shop stacked with Life magazines. They even had a bar with a sign touting their entertainment of “female impersonators”—I had no idea what that was, but it sounded really intriguing to me.

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As a curious 12-year-old, I often snuck off to Birdtown, the colorful pet store. Through rows of blue-tinted lights illuminating 10-gallon tanks filled with black-and-white angelfish and orange swordtails, I’d eavesdrop on the pet shop boys as they chatted around the register, flipping through their Hollywood gossip magazines.

At that age I had already recognized that a part of me belonged to each group of men. But I also knew I had to keep these worlds separate. It’s not that either disparaged the other—no one in Chinatown said anything homophobic and no one in the gayborhood said anything anti-Asian. But growing up in our segregated city, bathing in pervasive, casual bigotry on my school playground, I didn’t want to create any unnecessary drama in either community. I felt at home in both worlds but was scared of what might happen if they collided.

It was the end of the night and Chung’s had welcomed a big table of visiting VIPs, elderly men in ill-fitting suits from the Boston chapter of the tong. My grandpa was the head of the Detroit chapter, making him responsible for hosting out-of-town dignitaries. In their honor, our head chef had cooked up fancy plates not found on the usual menu of our Americanized chop suey joint, including crunchy, succulent gai lan and fishy, salt-infused hom yu.

Though we were past our posted closing time of 11 p.m., the dinner was still going strong. Dad, the consummate host and waiter, dressed in his red uniform, would never kick diners out, no matter how long they took to finish that last bite.

The gathering was actually serious business. A mini crime wave had hit the Chinese restaurants in our area. Owners were being held at gunpoint and robbed of all their day’s cash. Leaders from the tong’s more established chapters around the country had been streaming into town to make sure my grandpa and his friends had things under control. The long faces of our guests suggested they had their doubts.

Close to midnight, as the old Chinese men kvetched and plotted, four young white men dressed in tight T-shirts and even tighter jeans tapped at our big glass window. Surprised to see our lights still on, their faces broke out in smiles.

Even at age 12 my gaydar was fully operational; it was pinging like a busted car alarm. Before I could even make the case to turn the men away so we could wrap up for the night without any awkward clashes, my dad opened the door and issued his signature hearty greeting: “Welcome to Chung’s!”

The new arrivals sat down and scanned our menu, but they kept leaning over and staring at the foods spinning on the lazy Susan at my grandpa’s table. My dad explained that those dishes weren’t on the menu—and as the restaurant was technically closed, the cooks would only be able to make something quick and easy. The men accepted the restrictions with grace. Our cooks whipped up a few of our most popular dishes: savory plates of shrimp fried rice and chicken chop suey. As usual, the staff made a little extra for us kids, along with plates for my grandpa and his guests.

But when my dad, the super host, went to serve the quartet, he surprised them. “It turns out we had a little extra,” he said, setting down free samples of the off-menu dishes.

Peering over from the back table, by the coatrack and high chairs, I felt super nervous. Even as an American-born Chinese kid, I didn’t like some of those pungent dishes. How would these white guys respond?

With cautious forks and spoons in hand, they looked around their party, wondering who would make the first move. The guy with the tank top and biceps who seemed to be the leader nodded before conducting a quick smell-and-taste test.

One small nibble led to another. Soon they were scarfing everything down like Jabba the Hutt.

When my dad went to clear their plates, they joked, “Where can we get these recipes?”

My dad winked. “I guess you’ll just have to come again.”

As the young men headed out, laughing, they swung by the table of old Chinese men. The gay guys prattled on about how much they liked these new and unfamiliar dishes, pointing at their favorite entrées on the table. And the old guys smiled.

After the foursome left, the members of the tong seemed to lighten up a bit, leaning back in their chairs and taking swigs of their Hennessy. It looked as if they were relishing their food even more than before, as if they took pride in the compliments. At that point I realized I’d been holding my breath through the entire encounter.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so scared. The Chinese and gay communities shared something in common: In a union town full of Midwestern nuclear families, both groups were outliers. After being marginalized, attacked, and, in some instances, murdered, each had developed their own support system. Each community had learned how to take care of themselves. Was it so much of a stretch that they could take care of each other too?

I had an equal desire to sit at both tables. Back then, even though I knew I was gay and Asian, I didn’t think anyone else fit that profile. I thought I had to choose. But seeing how the two groups of men were able to connect, albeit briefly, gave me hope that these two sides of myself might just be compatible.

It could have been coincidence, or something I hadn’t noticed before, but after that night it seemed like our gay customers started dining in more, as opposed to ordering takeout. My dad started having longer conversations with them about developments in the neighborhood, including the latest real estate deals and crime reports. Eventually, my dad and some of our gay customers even set up an informal neighborhood watch—although that’s a story for another time. This one is about how, thanks to a few shared plates of gai lan and hom yu, our table got a little bigger.

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Originally Appeared on Bon Appétit